Elo Vazquez CC
Imagine If I were Home in My Body
Imagine if the planets could circle
here, intrinsic to my stardust hippocampus,
imbuing their celestial knowledge
on my fragile, mortal mind. What weeks
would grow from my spine? What
blessings would pour from my palms?
Beneath streetlamps, I’d glow, burn,
orbit a new purpose; the gutter would collect
my clothes as I ascended, ready to
enter a new plane of existence. The body is
what we make of it: I intend to
redesign my fingerprints after meteors, extend
my tastebuds into galaxies invisible
to the naked eye. My gaze is a word away
from perfect. If there’s an opening
for nebulae, dig my roots into the sky, now home.
Saltwater Heart as Tidepool with the Waves Washing In
I’m terrified to write about it
because to pin it to paper
would be to admit. I’m terrified
of the admitting, of the truth
barreling me over, demonstrating
my weakness, my stupidity.
The truth is: I wasn’t weak or stupid.
Victims aren’t weak or stupid.
We’re endurance as rock, as kind-hearted
cardinals giving the dawn songs,
we’re flashing sunbeams, the reason
everything grows. We radiate, gleam,
and this is celebration. This is carrying
the world on our shoulders, getting shit done,
and giving second chances. Brave heart,
wanting the best for someone isn’t a flaw.
You care, and you tried, and you made it out
shining, a seastar made of emeralds.
And you will love again.
Kelsey May is a writer, educator, and activist from Grand Rapids, Michigan. Her work has appeared in NonBinary Review, Turnpike Magazine, Paste Magazine, and The Broken Plate and has received two Pushcart Prize nominations. She interviews poets and other miscellaneous people at Hyype. She loves birdwatching, reading, and her husband.
Write something about yourself. No need to be fancy, just an overview.